


so much for the facts

by electrumqueen



Series: it's a framework problem [1]
Category: Cobra Kai (Web Series)
Genre: Infidelity, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Pity Sex, Repression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:14:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26946526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/electrumqueen/pseuds/electrumqueen
Summary: It’s not like he doesn’tthinkabout shutting the door on LaRusso. He does. It would be satisfying. He’d replay it for weeks.But it’s not a long thought.
Relationships: Daniel LaRusso/Johnny Lawrence
Series: it's a framework problem [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1981036
Comments: 24
Kudos: 151





	so much for the facts

**Author's Note:**

> doc title was 'pity beej' and that is... what this is. extremely nebulous timelining but i just finished season one, so sometime... then. before the respective son stuff starts to get to be a big deal, but after they almost fuck in the car. 
> 
> thank u e <333 love 2 lose my mind watching this show while screeching endlessly thanks for ur support+ spiral time hahaha.

It's raining. Johnny's drinking, and trying to watch the Clint Eastwood marathon on KTTV. He keeps having to turn the volume up, because the rain's fuckin' loud, and the roof's shit so it sounds even louder than it is, and the bucket Johnny had to put under that leaky window is full up so the plop plop plop keeps getting louder and louder. 

The kid said, _I'm going on a date tonight,_ all puppy eyes and enthusiasm, and Johnny said, _good luck kid, remember your rubbers_ , and Miguel said, _sensei!_ in that hilarious shocked little way of his. Johnny hopes they're parked up somewhere watching a movie, or at least at her house, where they've got real roofs, because that's how the other half live.

Johnny’s halfway through his first Coors and the movie’s just kicking in, not that he can hear for shit, because, again, the fucking _rain_. And someone has a loud-ass visitor who will not stop hammering on the door.

He’s about to get up and yell at the visitor to get the fuck out, because clearly nobody wants you, but there’s a lull in the rain and a long silent gaze on the TV, and the sound on the door is fucking louder than anything, which is how he figures it’s his door.

He wouldn’t get up, but his phone’s at the bottom of a pile of dirty laundry, not that there’s any other kind of laundry, and the kid has been known to show up from time to time.

It’s Daniel fucking LaRusso, car king of the valley, in Johnny’s doorway. His hair’s dripping down his face, the shoulders of his grey jacket black from the rain. "Amanda kicked me out," he says, flushed, almost manic. “She said I’ve lost my mind.”

It’s not like he doesn’t _think_ about shutting the door on LaRusso. He does. It would be satisfying. He’d replay it for weeks.

But it’s not a long thought.

Johnny steps back. “Well,” he says, sweeping his arm wide. "Why don't you come on in? Beer’s in the fridge." He doesn’t look back at LaRusso. The TV’s on and his beer’s still cold.

The rain’s loud again, Eastwood’s face craggy. Johnny doesn’t hear the door shut or the fridge open, but he feels the couch sag and hears the soft hiss of the Coors open, none of LaRusso’s Ketel bullshit here, and he takes a sip of his own beer and leans back.

The first credits are rolling before LaRusso speaks. They’re done with the first six-pack and halfway through the second but there are three of them in the fridge so Johnny doesn’t say anything, just tosses his empties into the trashcan by the door and watches LaRusso’s stack up with them.

LaRusso says, "I didn’t know where else to go." His eyes gleam in the TV glare, the lines around them deeper now than in the sunlight, the skin crinkling like paper, translucent. "All my friends are our friends. My house is our house. There's nowhere I can go without her in it."

Johnny settles back into his piece of shit couch. There’s a spring in his back but he doesn’t move, just leans into it. A massage for free is what he tells the kid, when he’s complaining.

LaRusso's mouth turns into a mean little curl. "You wouldn't know, though, would you. You live here. You're alone. You've always been alone." His hands are shaking, Johnny sees. Just a faint little tremor.

"So that's why you're here," Johnny says. It feels easy, in that sickening kind of way; like pressing into a bruise, or picking a scab. "You wanna feel better than me. Not gonna say it’s the first time.Been a minute since it was you, though. I thought you were above that.”

LaRusso shakes his head. "I-" 

"Don't be such a pussy, LaRusso.”

A tightness in LaRusso's shoulders, his eyes, and then - "It's all your fuckin' fault, you know. I was happy before you showed up."

"I was always here," Johnny says. This is easy. It burns familiar, good; Maker’s Mark right from the bottle. "Right where you left me. It was my town first."

"I told her I would get a hotel," LaRusso says. 

"Mi casa es su casa," Johnny says. "See, Miguel's been teaching me. I'm multicultural now."

LaRusso coughs on a swallow. 

“So what’d you do?” Johnny asks, ignoring it. “Too many joyrides? Not enough couples’ mani-pedis? Rip out her home gym for more bonsais?”

“Christ,” LaRusso says. “It’s fucking _you_ , all right. She says I’m different, says I’m obsessed with you, says I’m not the man she married. She says I just want to fight. She says- fuck. It doesn’t matter.”

“Ah,” Johnny says. 

“Go ahead,” LaRusso says, gesturing with his beer. “Say it.”

“Say what?”

“C’mon, Lawrence. I’m wide open.”

And, fuck. He is.

  
  


_It seemed like a good idea at the time,_ Johnny thinks, planning ahead how he's going to tell it to the kid. Why are you gonna tell it to the kid? Not the thing to worry about right now.

LaRusso's wearing slacks. Probably all natural fibre, not poly - Sid used to care about that shit. Told Johnny it was how you could pick out the pretenders from the real businessmen. They look nice, even though they're damp.

The carpet's jacked up from years of dirt and crumbs and Johnny’s poor decisions, but Johnny's wearing jeans, thick at the knees so when he thumps down onto them it's just a little sound that he makes, and then he's busy looking up at LaRusso - what a feeling; you only look up at Danny LaRusso when he's got you with an illegal kick to the head, but this isn't that, this is something else - and LaRusso's mouth is open, his dumb eyes round, surprised. 

"I owe you one, right?" _'cause I painted a dick on your face for the whole Valley to see, and I’d do it again -_ and then he's got his hand on the zipper of LaRusso's damp expensive slacks and there it is, just like riding a fucking bike. Just like putting on the headband.

Turns out just like it's fun to put LaRusso on his back on the mat, it's fun to make him breathless this way, too.

-

  
  


The first time Johnny sucked a dick he was nineteen. It wasn’t gay and it isn’t gay; his life had been shit for a while and it was easy, a good way to get some blow and a sweet place to crash. He was pretty then, which was a bullshit thing to say but easier to coast on than fighting his way out of trouble every night.

What he’s saying, is: it’s not a big deal. No reason to get hung up.

He doesn’t do it any more, because he’s not pretty and he doesn’t fuck with that shit, but it’s like riding a bike. You don’t forget.

And there’s satisfaction in it, you know? You know what you like, you know how he’s feeling. You know _just_ how good he’s feeling.

Not that Johnny’s into chick shit, but it’s nice to have the upper hand, once in a while.

-

Johnny spits into the trash. There goes the recycling deposit.

LaRusso stares at him like a rabbit in the headlights. He looks stupid, dumb with it; legs splayed, dick spilling out of his boxers. Everyone looks stupid after but Johnny savours it anyway.

“Seriously?” Johnny says, levering himself up on his aching knees. “C’mon, man. At least help me out here.” He drags the back of his hand across his mouth, watching LaRusso stare, and cups his dick to make it clear.

LaRusso blinks, confused, and then he sets his jaw like they’re about to go to the mat. “All right,” he says, reaching for Johnny’s jeans, hooking two thumbs into the belt loops to reel him in.

It’s not the best handie he’s ever had - LaRusso’s sloppy drunk and clumsy - but there’s something to it.

Probably the beer.

“Christ,” LaRusso says. “All over my _pants?_ ”

Johnny laughs. “Rookie,” he says, pulls his jeans the rest of the way off and tosses them away. “Hey, look at that.”

Eastwood’s on TV, looking serious. He’s got a gun and a horse. That’s all a man needs. Maybe Johnny should get a horse.

-

It felt rude to tell LaRusso to sleep on the couch after Johnny'd had his dick in his mouth. It doesn’t feel as rude when LaRusso’s standing in the doorway of Johnny’s bedroom, one eyebrow raised at Johnny’s mattress, which, okay, does have one sheet coming off the corner - an easy enough fix - but has two (flat) pillows and a blanket and was washed within the past month, so he’s doing better than he has been. Fuck you, LaRusso.

“What?” Johnny says. It comes out aggressive.

LaRusso shakes his head, and - reaches out, catches Johnny’s jaw in his hand, pulls him down. Before Johnny can realize what’s happening they are kissing. LaRusso’s mouth is warm, LaRusso’s hand is on his cheek and his tongue is in Johnny’s mouth.

“What,” Johnny says, again. “The hell, LaRusso? I’m not some chick.” _I don’t_ get _kissed._

LaRusso’s hair is soft against his neck, LaRusso’s breath hot against his shoulder, LaRusso’s forehead resting on the curve of Johnny’s shoulder as he sighs. “Shut up,” he says. “I’m tired.”

Johnny must be drunk. He lets LaRusso sway against him, tucks his hand into the small of LaRusso’s back. “You better not try anything,” he says. “It’s my bed and I’ll kick you out of it.”

The tickle of LaRusso’s eyelashes against his skin; Johnny can feel the smirk settled against him. “All right,” he says. “If you say so.”

-

Johnny wakes up desperate to piss. There’s a fucking rock on his bladder, is what it feels like, and he’s hot as hell so the a/c’s probably busted again. It takes him a second to knuckle his eyes open, to situate himself. And then - 

LaRusso’s behind him, wrapped around him like a big-ass octopus. His leg is wrapped around Johnny’s hip, his arm across Johnny’s chest. LaRusso is _spooning Johnny._

“Jesus,” Johnny mutters, under his breath. “I said no funny business, LaRusso.” But he’s tired and LaRusso’s hand is curled in a longing little fist so he just pries the arm and the leg off and slides out of bed.

LaRusso looks small, there, in Johnny’s bed. The shitty light’s coming through the bare window, the blankets rucked up where Johnny left them.

Johnny likes Mrs. LaRusso. She doesn’t take any shit, and she’s hot as hell. Too hot for LaRusso.

His bladder reminds him he has to piss. He shakes his head but there’s something tight in the bottom of his stomach. Probably the beer, his kidneys are jacked to shit, but maybe he can blame it on LaRusso.

Johnny takes the longest piss of his life and then he figures he’s up so he might as well brush his teeth. His mouth tastes fuckin’ awful.

His face stares back at him in the rusting mirror, that relentless bathroom light picking up on every wrinkle, every line. _You’re not a kid anymore, Lawrence._

Spit, rinse, spit again. That’s what she said.

He looks old. When did he get old? When he got twenty kids. When Miguel coughed blood all over him. When Aisha taught him to play that stupid game on his phone. When he co-signed for Hawk’s ugly-ass tattoo.

Why the fuck would LaRusso kiss him?

-

The bed is empty when Johnny wakes up. He reaches one hand across the sheets before he realizes, and then he shakes his head. _Lawrence, what the hell._

His head feels like ass but familiarly. He pulls a shirt on over his head, stares out the window at the dull lot for a second, and then he can’t put it off. 

“Hey,” LaRusso says. “Good morning.”

The kitchen smells good. The faint smell of vermin’s covered by fresh coffee wafting through the room, the smell of something sweet in a bowl covered by the stove. Even the light looks better, less like weak morning piss and more like, well. Sunshine.

“Huh,” Johnny says. He rubs his hand across his face once to make sure, a second time for luck.

LaRusso’s sitting at the kitchen table, wearing yesterday’s shirt. His slacks are hanging over the back of the chair. His hair’s standing up. He looks like a kid. Not really. He looks younger than Johnny feels. “I made breakfast. I didn’t know what you liked, so-”

“Everyone likes pancakes,” Johnny says.

“Everybody likes pancakes,” LaRusso says. When he smiles he looks like a cartoon mouse. It’s the roundness of the eyes. “There’s coffee, if you want it.”

“Yeah. Thanks. I’ll get it.” He can turn his back on LaRusso while he’s pouring - the pot never smells this good when he makes it, just enough Folgers to make his teeth black, some sugar, the hottest water he could microwave. He slept, but - it doesn’t feel like he did. 

It fucking tastes better, too. How the fuck did he do that? 

One swallow, then another, and then - _turn around, you bastard piece of shit_ \- so he does. 

LaRusso is still at the table. He is still looking at Johnny. He looks tired but not angry. He’s rolled his shirtsleeves up and his forearms look long, hands well-worn, strong. “Morning,” he says. It doesn’t sound like there’s anything else in it, but you never know, with LaRusso.

“Hey,” Johnny says. The cup feels strange in his hands - heavy. Like something fancier than anything in his shitty apartment that he shares with the rat family at the bottom of the closet. “LaRusso - Danny. Sit down.”

“Yeah?” LaRusso leans forward, arms folded on the table in front of him. A smile plays at the corner of his mouth, creases the edges of his eyes. He’s gotta feel like shit but he looks- happy, maybe. “You can call me Danny.”

“You need to talk to your wife.”

“What?” LaRusso gets up. One easy movement, fluid - like they’re kids, like his back doesn’t ache in the morning, like his knees don’t creak. Maybe they don’t. He probably has good insurance.

Johnny puts his cup down. He doesn’t know LaRusso all that well, but how he fights - he knows that. He dreams about that. He knows what LaRusso’s shoulders look like; he knows that look in LaRusso’s eyes, that set to his mouth.

He doesn’t need to keep looking at LaRusso. He doesn’t need to see his bare feet or his tight-clenched fists. “Go home, man. Take a pair of jeans. Roll ‘em up, it’ll work. You look like you’re playing dress up all the time anyway.”

“Who the fuck are you, man?” The Jersey pops out sometimes. You can hear it when LaRusso’s pissed, or when he’s tired. “You’re a marriage counsellor now?”

“You married her,” Johnny says. “She married you. Don’t say you’re not thinking about it.”

“ _Johnny-”_ LaRusso says, like it means something. He’s staring at Johnny like there’s something on his face. “I-”

Johnny knows what his face looks like: ten o’clock shadow and age. He looks at it all the time, in the dojo, with the kids. At home, in the reflection of his shitty tv, superimposed over whatever western’s running. Reminding him the kind of man he isn’t.

“Tell her the truth, LaRusso. You came here. You stayed over. We got drunk. That’s what happened. You love her. You’re sorry. You’ll be better next time. You got two fuckin’ kids, man.”

LaRusso’s coming toward him, the little guy on the beach, too light for his own body, barely anchored to the ground. “What, you’re father of the year now?”

“Three kids, counting mine.” Johnny rubs his hand over his mouth, holds his fucking ground. 

LaRusso is close, tight up. Johnny could feel his breath if he wanted to. 

He doesn’t want to. He screws his eyes shut. “You slept here. You fucking spooned me because you missed her. Of course you love her. _Capisce?_ ”

LaRusso steps back. Johnny knows what a good hit looks like when he lands one.

“Yeah,” LaRusso says. Gravity pushes the edges of his eyes down, turns his mouth down. “You’re right. I love her.” 

“All right,” Johnny says. “All right.”

  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> i'm sure danny has a lot more complicated shit going on! but my fav thing abt ck canon is how much at opposites everyone is/how strongly their independent narrations of the same events often contradict each other, so johnny ... is not gonna pay attention to it. literally 0 offense to amanda lol i too would tell my husband to cool the fuck off if he suddenly reoriented his life around the highs & lows of high school karate.


End file.
